To yupana kernel

By Fabiane Morais Borges

Translated by Pedro Machado Salazar

Reviewed by Rakhee Kewada and Lívia Achar Mourão.

The Antenna-Zombie is in danger, he is not able to talk anymore. Eyes with shades, ears longer than the usual, a kind of fatigue of the ears. Mouth frowning, rare smiles. A fear of any interferences. Follows too many signals, hears too much information, doesn’t know how to make it fit into his body. Only one body is not enough and he gets weary. Maybe it is because the body empties itself for protection. And how to make an empty body sustain itself?

The body battered from the excess of frequencies. Everything he listens to is fragmented even if it is whole. Either it is the link, the satellite, the music, the latest discoveries, the latest wars, the open code, more links and he will not stop coding – his only way of communicating with the machines. A lot of new language to interpret. Roll your fingers on the screen and fabricate your digitophagy, your digital antropophagy. He eats so much data and becomes obese! Reticent, the Antenna-Zombie starts to doubt words, thinking they are tasteless, boring and weak. Your words don’t activate my matter! He thinks like a clever cat: matter doesn’t need so many words. That is why he only speaks through the fingers and can not do more than mumble. He communicates through links, codes and his intelligence manifests itself in the quality of the data he sends. The ones who have ears to listen, hear the Antenna-Zombie speaking abstract codes like the ones who speaks of metaphysics. Metaphysics is itself abstract coding, of a different series. And human beings are also abstract codes, of yet another different series. Everything that exists sounds like abstraction. The Antenna-Zombie sees everything in fragmented frequencies.
When his intelligence stretches to the point of blowing up his individuality, he certifies his extension gain, but instead of incorporating it, he dissolves. He knows about the Matrix, knows it is not about science fiction. He constantly sees himself in the role of Neo, who is brought at great speed to the abismal place where his body really is when he swallows the red pill. It is not in the city, not even in his bed, but in a gooey tank where tubes down his throat extract his vital energy in order to feed the big web. The pill guarantees neither happiness, nor a liberation. It is painful understanding that his life is a fiction. That is how the Antenna-Zombie feels. His whole life has been stolen: the magnetic fields of his electrons, his electric charges, his most poetic production, his intuition. That is the reason for the stretching, because it hurts him to let go of the cables, the wires, of all the traps that cover his skin. He does not sleep anymore, he wakes up startled. His anxiety is a constant alarm clock. He is always scared and suspect of any intensity.

Dark circles under his eyes the Antenna-Zombie is someone with gravity, with heavy steps as if he is an old person, his head leaning to the side as if he has a twitch, following the impulses and soon giving up for excess of demand, for not having control of commands, for being scared of the dark from the outside of the house, fear of the rain, fear of the evil inside the thoughts that think him. Talking costs too much. The scars still hurt and he fears that if he insists more on the big web, he will be consumed by it. And disappear.


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